Artist Of Life
I wanted to sing like Johnny Hartman, paint like Picasso, dance like Mikhail Baryshnikov, and write like Camus, but I did not. I was not given at birth their unique talent to do those things. It might have been their genes or a gift from the gods. I do not know. I know what I love, but it has taken me a lifetime to discover. I love being alive. I love waking up each day, and yet, I know that too, will at some point end. We are all given the time we have and so that must be enough in which to do the things we love.
I was not a child genius. I tried lots of things: sports, music, business, etc. but I never excelled at any of them. I have never excelled at anything, if the truth be known, except for being true to myself. So why am I here?
What is my contribution to humanity? The only answers I can conceive at this time are my interaction with others on their journey, my words, and my life. I have not made any great scientific discoveries, or found the cure for a disease. I have not walked on the moon or even entered space. My creativity has all been with words for which I have gained neither fame nor fortune but that is not why I write. I write because I have been given a voice to speak, a mind to think, and a heart that feels. Words permit me to share my experiences and thoughts with others. That is a valuable gift. I am the artist of my own life. In the end, my destiny is not determined by my skills or abilities nor lack thereof. It is determined by the choices I make, the experiences I engage and chance.